13600
he sits on the edge of the world
unconcerned with the
dissimulation of
polite society
busy little bee's
bouncing off reality
living the dream he so valiantly fought to protect
he sits there quietly
saturated in urine
manufactured of white port fueled by memory of war
contemplating nothing
invisible to most
but still
a blight upon their sensibilities and
a horrid fright to the eyes when seen
cold hungry and shivering
they could give a siht as to his welfare
they cogitate his insanity
his own undoings
and that smell
the smell of death
lurking waiting to pounce
on yet another of society's outcast
putid sores cover flesh uncovered
where gnats and flies feast
and maggots dine beneath the skin and
his breath
his breath smells of dragon blood
do we even know what dragon blood is?
apparently he does
two tours in Vietnam and a purple heart for bravery
yet he sits on the edge of the world
bravely trampled under foot of apathy
absent of coalition
he wishes only to be left alone
to dance in the pain of degredation
and waltz in the face of death
until God calls him to reckoning
he will sit there on the edge of the world
listening to
the mundane idiocrasy of those who wander by
left to his own maundering
invisible that is
until the olympics come to town.
